Death has become pornographic, shown live on TV. Massacres, which used to be unearthed through rumor, are quickly reported in detail via satellite.

Why does nothing change, even when you set out for a faraway place?

A novelist without a book published in English is treated like a bum.

He starts to tire, and tells himself that he doesn't care where she is. She's like mildew that has invaded his life. She's the kind of mold that wouldn't have appeared if he lived austerely, the kind that breeds only in the dark, neglected corners of a building. She has infected his life, not caring what he wants. He hates himself for trudging through the snow looking for a woman who was having sex with his brother on the day their mother was buried. Seriously, I don't want to know where she is or whether she's dead or alive. Still, even as he thinks this, he advances, putting one foot in front of the other.